


The Goodnight Girl

by Lady_Therion



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-14
Updated: 2016-04-29
Packaged: 2018-06-02 06:35:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6555025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Therion/pseuds/Lady_Therion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The deal is that Lacey sings for him and only him. AU Cursed!Storybrooke.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The First Night

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally written for the Rumbelle Showdown 2016 under my pseudonym Red Cloak.

* * *

 

Seven thirty. The Rabbit Hole. Lacey is never late.

Lou, the bartender, takes her coat as she walks in. Makes some joking remark that she looks chilled, shaken and stirred. The perfect cocktail.

“Full house tonight,” he adds.

Lacey scans the bar: it’s the usual crowd. The blue collars. The broken-hearted. The bad seeds. Anyone with baggage. Low wages. Ex-husbands. Deeds and debts.

Lacey can make them all forget. With her voice. With her smile. With her laugh, plus tip.

“I’ll take a gin and tonic,” she says.

The bartender has it ready.

She downs her glass quickly, the liquid warming her from the inside out.

She thanks the bartender and heads to the dressing room, unaware of the dark eyes that follow her.

*******

It surprises people that Lacey has a job.

It surprises them even more that she is good at it.

“Drinks don’t pay for themselves,” she would say, even though that wasn’t always true—for her, at least.

Because by the end of the night, Lacey can always rely on the kindness of strangers.

Strangers are her favorite kind of people.

They have no expectations. They have no attachments. And if you play your right cards, strangers can stay that way.

Truthfully, Lacey isn’t really insulted.

Strangers can be kind. But the world can be cruel.

She knows she isn’t going places. There is no reason for her to take what the world has to offer.

Lacey thinks about this as she settles into her “dressing room” which is really just the end bit of an extra large storage closet. In the corner is a lit vanity where Lacey exchanges her winter boots for stilettos and a little black dress. Then she layers on enough make-up to become the person everyone thinks she is.

_Racy Lacey. The Storybrooke Siren._

She keeps Sidney’s flattering headline in a clip between the light bulbs of her mirror. It is probably the only time their little town press will have anything good to say about her. In fact, the only time when  _The Mirror_ says anything important about women is when they’re getting married, going to college or are the Mayor.

Lacey’s not material enough to be a wife, a student or an administrative politician. But Storybrooke Siren has a nice ring to it. It’s way better than, say, Storybrooke Slut.

There is a knock on the door and Lou peeks his head in.

“Five minutes,” he says.

“All right,” says Lacey.

“You, ah, also have these.”

The bouquet is like nothing she has ever seen, which is saying something considering that she grew up with a florist. Over a dozen long stem roses sat in crystal vase that could easily pay for half of her month’s rent. The roses themselves are such a deep burgundy that they looked almost pure black.

“It also came with this,” says Lou.

He hands her a white card.

The writing is nondescript and unfamiliar. There are no words of longing or declarations of love. Instead there is only a single request:

_Do I Move You?_

_Nina Simone_

Nina Simone is one of Lacey’s favorites. She knows the song well. She sings it for auditions around town…or for rainy days when everything is too much.

“Looks like you’ve got an admirer.”

Lacey smiles dryly.

She doesn’t like admirers.

Admirers are tricky and troublesome.

They can invite all sorts of problems and leave them at your doorstep.

“I guess I do.”

She tells Lou to put the flowers somewhere where she can’t see them.

*******

The band is tuning up as Lacey takes her place on the makeshift stage. Scattered applause and wolf whistles follow her as she takes her seat at the piano. There are never any spotlights on her during her performances—not enough money—so she can see all of her regulars front and center.

Ruby gives her a toast…

Dr. Whale gives her wink…

And…Mr. Gold takes a seat.

_Mr. Gold?_

Lacey has never seen Mr. Gold at the Rabbit Hole before. Not classy enough. But there he is with a front row table, looking as glowery and formidable as ever. He brought all his trademarks: dark suit, dark gloves and dark scowl. She notices a reservation card on his table.

_Weird._

Lou comes by to serve Mr. Gold his glass of brandy. Lacey overhears some snarling remark and watches out of the corner of her eye as Lou returns to the bar with the glass in hand. It isn’t until Lacey has set up her sheet music that Lou finally returns with a glass that’s to Mr. Gold’s satisfaction.

_Prick._

She sips her water and leans forward into the mic.

“I’ve got a special request tonight,” she says. “From some very special mystery man. Or woman.” She winks at the answering catcalls. “Whoever you are, darling, this one’s for you.”  

The band starts up and her fingers glide over the keys. It is like drifting into a velvet dream.

_Do I move you?_

_Are you willin’?_

_Do I groove you?_

_Is it thrillin’?_

_Do I soothe you?_

_Tell I truth now._

_Do I move you?_

_Are you loose now?_

Her voice teases over the audience. Smooth and smoky. Mr. Gold leans forward in his seat and Lacey can’t help but feel something primitive in his gaze. It’s a look that she recognizes—when a hunter sets his sights on a prey.  

_The answer be yes…yes._

_That pleases me._

Lacey delves deeper into the song, making a seduction out of it.

Just for fun. Just for the thrill.

If there’s one thing Lacey knows, it’s how to make a good seduction. Seductions have nothing to do with physicality, but everything to do with making someone feel like they are the most of important person in the world.

Is that what Mr. Gold is looking for?

_The answer be yes…yes._

_That pleases me._

His eyes are smoldering. Lace thinks of black roses as she lets her velvet dream crescendo into a diamond roar.

_The answer be yes…yes._

_That pleases me._

There are wolf whistles and loud applause. Lacey turns and takes a bow. Then she turns to Mr. Gold and blows him a kiss.

He shifts uncomfortably, like she’s just given him a kiss of death.

_Maybe I have_ , she thinks with a soft smile.

After all, admirers were tricky.

*******

He waits for her at the end of the night, right outside her dressing room.

“That was quite a performance, Miss French.”

“Thank you, Mr. Gold.” She leans against the wall, her hand on her hip. “And thank you for the flowers.”

“You knew they were from me?”

She smirks. “Now I do.”

There is a slight twitch in his jaw.

_Interesting._

She’s never seen him show any kind of restraint before. Then again, he’s probably never encountered anyone that could goad him into a slip of the tongue.

“You must want something  _very_ badly,” she says. “Is it love you’re looking for, Mr. Gold? I know a lot of people can’t help loving me.”

He doesn’t seem to find any humor in her joke. Instead he cuts right to the heart of things.

“Your father’s been remiss about his payments, Miss French.”

“What?”

“By about six months actually. He told me to come to you.”

“But that’s…that’s bullshit!”

He hands her a contract.

“You’re free to look at the details yourself. But considering your father is unable to pay, the responsibility must fall onto you. As co-owner of his business.”

_**Co-owner?** What the hell was he talking about?_

“I am  _not_ …”

He holds up a single finger.

“I can see that the debt might be a concern for you. If you would like to reach an alternative agreement…I suggest we meet at the pawnshop tomorrow morning.”  

“I’m not going anywhere with you.”

In a single beat, he has her against the wall. His cane leaning against her thigh. Their lips almost touching. Her breathing harsh and electrified.

“Please do reconsider, Miss French,” he whispers. “Your father has broken a deal. And I am not one to forget or forgive.”

He pushes himself away. His face a cold, hard mask.

Lacey is  _seething._  

“Enjoy your flowers, Miss French.”

*******

Lacey takes deep breaths as she goes back out into the night. Her thoughts are a litany of  _asshole, asshole, **asshole**_ as she fumbles with her lighter.

A yellow bug rolls up next to her. A pretty blonde leans out of her window seat.

“Hey there. Know any nearby hotels? I’m, ah, new around here.”

Lacey nods and points down the street. “There’s Granny’s Inn up ahead. Take a left.”

The blonde thanks her and drives on.

Lacey takes a drag out of her cigarette.

_Weird._

Storybrooke didn’t get many out-of-towners.


	2. The Next Morning

* * *

 

Seven thirty. Main Street Square. Lacey is awake.

Frail grey light bleeds through cheap linen curtains. A secondhand coffee machine churns out thick black sludge. Lacey sits at her kitchen table with a half-dead cigarette, feeling empty and hungover. She taps the ash into a star-shaped tray, keeping in time with the rhythm of a clock on the wall. 

_Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock._

The motion keeps her grounded in reality, which is spiraling further out of control with each pitilessly passing minute. Of course her father hadn’t returned any of her calls. Nor had he been at his apartment when she marched her arse over the night before to give him a piece of her mind.  

Lucky for her, Storybrooke is a small town. She would run into him eventually—and give him three kinds of hell when she did.

She glances at the papers spread out in front of her. Papers that Gold had all but slapped her face with at the Rabbit. She has combed over every detail. Twice. Three times. More. Every word is precise, heartless and unyielding: the most damning piece of all being her name at the bottom of every page. She had to give her father credit: it looks just like her handwriting. Even _she_ couldn’t tell the difference.

Not that it would matter to Gold.

Lacey stubs out her cigarette and walks across the cold linoleum floor to the living room where she sits at her black spinet piano. It is one of the few possessions in her home that she keeps in good shape. A tuneup or a good polish always cost her a pretty penny. But she uses her piano often, like a good lover, and wants to keep it around for the long haul. In fact, it is the longest and most stable relationship she has. 

She rifles through her basket of sheet music until she finds a piece from Noora Noor, ‘Forget What I Said.’ She smirks as she places it in her music prop. Songs about regret are the best cures for hangovers: the pain of pounding headaches had nothing over the pain of broken hearts.  

She lets her fingers do the rest, letting every dulcet note take her to dark and dingy places where fairy tales and happy endings did not exist. Lacey stopped believing in fairies long ago, when her mother died on a rainy Sunday. That was the day Lacey traded her fairies for the agony and the grief of what-could-have-beens.

It’s a language that Lacey is sorry to be fluent in.

_But I can love you like hell_  
_Put you under my black magic spell_  
_And I can kiss you like nobody else_

_Yeah, yeah_   
_I’ll make good of my bads_  
_I’ll make nice of all that is sad_ _I’ll cut off the dead hands of my past_

_Forget what I said, forget what I did_  
_It’s not what I meant, so can you forgive?_  
_It just came out wrong_ _I’m taking it back  
_

_Please forget about it_

Her buzzer sounds halfway through, shattering the mood like broken beer glass. Lacey sighs before pressing the call button, praying it wasn’t one of her neighbors. The last time someone came over to complain about the noise, they threatened to call the sheriff. It’s a good thing Officer Graham happened to be a fan of her music.

“Who is it?”

“It’s Mr. Gold.” 

Lacey freezes. Her mind short-circuiting to a monosyllabic stream of thoughts: Gold? Here? _Shit_ _._

“May I come up?”  

Lacey takes a sweeping look around her apartment. Piles of laundry and discarded heels on the floor. A full kitchen sink. A sheer bra hanging from the door of her bedroom. _Shit._

“Um…just give me a minute.”  

She doesn’t even wait for him to answer. In a flurry, she piles the laundry into her bedroom and shuts the slide-in door to her kitchen.

_To hell with him if he wanted something to eat or drink._ _Serves him right for showing up out of the goddamned blue. Who the hell does he think he is? Harassing me in my own home?_

There is no time to dress, so she ties a housecoat over her nightie and lets Mr. Gold upstairs. She runs her fingers through her hair in a vain attempt to tame her wild curls. She licks her lips and pinches her cheeks in lieu of makeup. It isn’t so much that she wants to be done up for him. It’s more so of the fact that she didn’t want him to see her so vulnerable.  

What follows is the barest, most gentle and most hesitant of knocks—when she expected something more douchey and self-entitled. Lacey frowns. _Weird._ She swings open the door, hoping that it was someone else. To her disappointment, it is still Mr. Gold.  

“What? No flowers?”  

He reddens. Good. She _wants_ him to be embarrassed. But upon closer inspection, she doesn’t think he’s so much embarrassed as he is…what…ashamed? The moment is gone before she can dwell on it though. Because he rallies and says, “Not today, I’m afraid.” And gives her a small smile. It seems genuine too. For whatever reason, that only makes Lacey feel more on edge. 

“We can, um, sit on my couch.”  

As she leads him there, she notices his face reddening again. She realizes a moment too late that her bra is still hanging on the door knob. _Shit._

“Sorry about the mess,” she says, when they both get settled. She picks the far end of the corner, hoping to put as much distance in between them. “I thought I was supposed to go meet you at your shop later.”  

He doesn’t answer right away, and it makes the nerves under her skin prickle. She doesn’t know what it is, but there is something vastly different about him this morning. For one, there is a whole let less snark than she expected. Instead, he keeps staring at her like she is about to explode. _One wrong move and boom._

“I apologize to intrude on you like this,” he says, quietly. “I thought it might be more convenient for you.”  

Lacey narrows her eyes, her bullshit meter on high alert.  

“Right. So…let’s cut to chase. If this is about the money, I can tell you that I can’t pay it. At least not right now. The gig at the Rabbit pays the rent and not much else. I can’t really do teaching because most of the parents around here don’t like me too much. And you can forget about Mother Superior letting me play for her choir. The only way I can make more is to find gigs out of town. I hear they pay pretty good at the lounges in Bangor.” 

He seems to panic at the words “out of town.” Probably because he didn’t want her too far out of his sphere of influence, where he can keep tabs on her. She couldn’t blame him though. If she could afford a car to begin with, she would probably end up bumming around the East Coast and never come back. 

“That’s not really necessary, Miss French. I would rather you…” He gestures at the thin air, trying to remember the words of his script. “I would rather we settle this in other ways.” 

She arches an eyebrow. “Other ways? You mean besides money?”  

He looks around her shabby apartment before resting his eyes on her piano. “Your music. Regardless of what you might think, I happen to be…very fond of your voice. We can consider your debt paid if you…sing for me. Privately. I’ll pay you for your time. More than you can get from the Rabbit Hole. You’ll never have to work there again.” 

Lacey doesn’t know what to make of his strangely desolate plea. It blindsides her. It shakes her tiresome and prosaic and inconsequential little world. It does all of these things because Mr. Gold is offering her what he never offers anyone: mercy.

“There’s no tricks here, Miss French,” he hastens to add, noting the doubt clouding her face. “I’m a man who keeps his word.” 

_What the hell am I getting myself into?_

“I like the Rabbit. But I guess I don’t mind doing…private performances for you. Just for now. If that’s what you’re actually asking.”  

He sags with relief, releasing a long breath he apparently had been holding. “Yes, that’s all I’m proposing.” 

After a few more awkward pleasantries and an exchange on logistics, she shows him to the door. He pauses before leaving. “May I see you tonight then?” 

He gazes at her, something like hope lingering in his worn expression. She nods, both unsettled and uncertain. 

“Yeah. I can see you tonight.”


	3. The Second Night

* * *

 

Seven thirty. Vermont Avenue. Lacey is chicken shit.

Okay, not completely chicken shit. But she _has_ been parked outside of Gold’s house for the better part of the hour now.

Out of cigarettes and hyped up on bad coffee, Lacey considers driving away from this mess. In fact the night has all the signs of things about to go awry: stubborn hair, second choice dress, third choice heels, a broken nail and a huge run in her panty hose.

It would be a miracle if she made it out of this alive.

All Lacey can think of is dragging herself back to Main Street. To world that she understands. A world that can let her forget about debt-collecting tyrants by binge watching bad TV.

She is hoping that Gold wouldn’t be home. That he changed his mind. That he would cancel. Because honestly, there was nothing about this deal that seemed remotely at all like Mr. Gold. In all the years that she’s known him, she’s never seen him alter a deal for anyone.

So why her?

Why now?

Also, why did his house have to be _pink_?

All Lacey knew was that she wouldn’t get any of her answers by angsting in the driver’s seat of her station wagon.

So she might as well take her chances and get this over with.

These famous last words are what she tells herself when she climbs Mr. Gold’s porch and knocks.

She doesn’t know what to expect when the door slowly opens.

“Hey,” she says.

“Hey,” he says, eyes bright like he can’t believe she’s there.

She’s tempted to say that she’s pretty surprised herself. Instead, she says, “Do you have anything to drink?

*******

The inside of Mr. Gold’s house is a lot less…classy than she thought it would be. Granted, she could probably fit ten of her flats in here, but you would never know that with all the priceless junk lying around. In fact, it didn’t feel so much like a home as it did just another extension of his shop.

Also, who the hell would ever need a rocking horse?

“What do you think?” he asks her.

“I think you need a maid,” she says.

Then she clamps a hand around her mouth.

But Gold only smiles in response. It’s a pained smile so she knows that she’s touched a nerve.

“Sorry,” she says. “That was rude.”

He’s quick to reassure her. “It’s no trouble. I admit the place has been quite neglected these past few years. In fact, I mostly sleep in a spare room at the shop. This house can be quite lonely.”

That last part doesn’t come off like an insinuation. In fact, it comes off as a confession that bares a little too much. Lacey doesn’t know what to do with that. She’s never been good at that kind of stuff.

So she pretends that she didn’t hear him instead.

“Where can I set up?”

He leads her down a brightly lit corridor. “Everything is ready for you in the parlor.” Of course Gold would have a _parlor_. “But I was wondering if you would care for dinner first?”

Lacey is torn between saying yes and no. No, because dinner could…muddy things. Yes, because she’s pretty sure she hasn’t eaten anything today that remotely resembled protein.

Hunger wins out.

“Um..sure.”

*******

Dinner is a weird affair, but then again everything about Gold is a weird affair.

It’s actually a pretty ace dinner. Steak for two. Mashed potatoes. Garden salad. Had it been with anyone else, Lacey would have been nine weeks into heaven. Instead, she spends most of the time in edgy silence. Gold isn’t much for conversation and it’s not like Lacey wants to encourage it.

He does ask her about her father though, and whether or not she’s heard from him.

“My dad’s an arse,” is all Lacey can say, picking at her radish. “It’s really all his fault that I wound up here. Erm…no offense.”

She has _got_ to stop doing that.

Mr. Gold cuts into his steak carefully. “You’re father was desperate. All parents can make mistakes in desperation. Myself included.”

 _That_ stops Lacey from picking at her radish. Gold is a parent? Since when?

But before her mind can dwell on it, he rises from the table. “Would you like some tea?”

“Huh?” Lacey isn’t really a tea person. But whatever, don’t bite the hand that feeds and all that. “Yeah, okay.”

It takes a while for Gold to come back with a tray and something like a…keepsake box? She assumes that’s where he puts all of his tea bags, but when he opens it there’s only a little set of blue and white cups. They’re cute. Something her mother would have picked out maybe.

One of them is chipped.

He looks at her expectantly. His eyes misted and shining.  

_What does he **want**?_

“I’ll take the Jasmine,” she says.

*******

Of course Gold would have a Steinway.

All black, pristine and perfectly tuned. Even the leather seat is more comfy than her bed back home.

It doesn’t take her long to settle in. Everything has been prepared for her ahead of time. It was a little creepy how much foresight Gold could have. Then again, he liked being in control. Lacey could get that.

Control is a precious commodity.

The first piece she plays is an old favorite from high school. He didn’t give her any guidelines on what he likes, so she figured she would start with what she knew she liked. It didn’t seem like Gold had a preference either. He seemed content enough to just look at her from his seat on the sofa.

She wishes he would stop looking at her like that.

Like she is a regret waiting to happen.

He is so _different_ from that first night she played.

_And well, speaking of regrets…_

She places her hands on the keys, waiting for some image to come to mind. It helps her unwind. It helps her unlock.

She thinks about dark cities. Dark water. A shoreline off in the distance maybe. Flickers of light dotting the horizon. Too far away to reach.

Then she sings.

 _Come as you are, as you were_  
_As I want you to be_  
 _As a friend, as a friend_  
 _As an old enemy_

 _Take your time, hurry up_  
_Choice is yours, don’t be late_  
 _Take a rest as friend_  
 _As an old_

_Memoria, memoria_

Lacey doesn’t look at him when the song ends, instead she goes ahead and plays the rest of her set. She does this because she is afraid of what she might see. She hears his voice though, a faint murmur as her fingers evoke the next few notes.

It sounds like, “So beautiful.”

Lacey knows that that’s a lie. There is nothing beautiful about her. Or this. Lacey is just Lacey. And this is just a job.

Neither of them should forget that.

Lacey is tired by the time she is done. Not because she isn’t used to long nights performing. But sad songs take a particular toll on her, and she is definitely ready to call it a night and get numb.

“That’s it,” she says. “Goodnight, Mr. Gold.”

He doesn’t let her leave.

“Wait. Stay.”

She looks up at him from her seat as he holds her wrist like a fragile bird, as though he is afraid to break her—which makes no sense to her.

Nothing about tonight makes sense to her.

“I…” She doesn’t know what to say to him. So she tries—like she does with all things that are too complicated—to brush him off. “You know, that technically counts as overtime.”

He swallows.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

She doesn’t think it’s _this_ that he’s sorry about.

He draws closer, not quite meeting her eyes.

 _Danger, danger_ , her instincts say. _He’ll rip your heart out if he can_.  

But then there is something…a faint glimmer at the back of her mind…

His lips are trembling, as though he is struggling not to cry. It shakes something in her, rattles loose a feeling she buried long ago for the sake of self- preservation: sympathy.

Sympathy for the devil slithers into the pit of her stomach, coiling around her guts with a grip that is much stronger than Gold’s slender fingers.

“Stay, please,” he whispers, desperately. Like he’ll die if she’ll go.

And somewhere in the back of her mind, that glimmer turns into a flash. Like they had this conversation before. Except back then, back then…

_Go. Go?_

_I don’t want you anymore, dearie…_

_Empty heart, chipped cup…_

Lacey sways a bit before settling her gaze on their entwined hands.

_Where…where did that **come** from?_

“Stay,” he says again.

_Danger, danger…_

_You were freeing yourself._

She can hear the final nail in her coffin as she says,“I’ll stay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lacey's rendition of "Come as You Are" is based on Yuna's cover of Nirvana.


	4. The Morning After

* * *

Seven thirty. Vermont Avenue. Lacey is lost in thought.

First, there is the familiar feeling of waking up in an unfamiliar bed. That raw moment of disorientation: the moment where the axis of all she knows tilts to reveal just how far she’s fallen.

The worst part is that she doesn’t know how she can walk away from this.

No.

The worst part is that she isn’t sure she _does_ want to walk away from this.

She stirs and stretches, the copious amounts of silken sheets clinging to her. Then she looks to her side, towards the French doors that lead out to the balcony.

It figures he would give her the best view in the house. As if everything between them isn’t already confusing enough.

_Stay, please..._

She drapes the duvet over her bare shoulders as she walks across the cold hardwood floor. Outside, the balcony is as wide and spacious as the guest bed. There is a breakfast table for two that overlooked a well manicured garden. The air is crisp, clear and charged with uncertainty.

Lacey can’t put her finger on it, but it’s obvious something has changed. Not just her. Not just him. But everything around them. It’s as if every particle in town is holding its breath in anticipation of something huge and irrevocable.

And everyone would have to bear the consequences.

Shaking off the chill that had nothing to do with the weather, Lacey heads back to the guest room to throw on last night’s clothes. Only to find a bathrobe in exactly her size ready and waiting for her on the chair by her bedside. She knew Mr. Gold liked to prepare, but this seemed a bit too much...and begs way too many questions that she’s too tired to consider.

It’s her newfound sympathy for him that brings her downstairs. That and the fact that she’s starving.

The rich smell of food leads her to the kitchen where she finds a tray set out on the counter. There is a glass of orange juice, two slices of toast, two slices of bacon and two eggs sunny side up. All nearly arranged beside a thin flower vase containing a single rose.

And no sign of Mr. Gold.

Lacey doesn’t know what to make of her disappointment at that. She has been dreading talking to him since last night, when he held her hand and pleaded for her to stay. It had shocked her then. It still shocked her now. That he could look so completely vulnerable.

 _Just who_ **_is_ ** _the man beneath that callous and cold-hearted exterior?_ This thought nags at her as she digs into her plate. _And more importantly, what did he want from her?_

Because there is obviously more to this than just her singing him showtunes.

Last night made that pretty clear.

But before she can follow that train of thought, she sees a little note tucked next to the flower vase.

_Lacey -_

_Thank you once again for a beautiful performance, and for indulging a very foolish old man. I can’t explain why I was so overcome, but it speaks to your talent that I could feel so at all. Especially after so many years. In my mind, money is poor compensation for your generosity...and understanding. But I hope this will suffice._

_Until we meet again._

_-Mr. Gold._

Sure enough, there’s a thick wad of bills waiting to be counted. Lacey’s jaw drops.

Shit. This is a hell of a lot more than “walking around” money. How the hell is she supposed to drive home knowing _this_ is shoved somewhere at the bottom of her purse next to her tampons?

 _What the hell am I getting myself into?_ She asks herself for the second time.

Off in the distance, she hears the bells of the clock tower ring for the first time in years. Each toll bringing her closer to the unknowable and closer to the inevitable.

*******

Lacey stops by the diner later that afternoon to hand Ruby the car keys.

Though she couldn’t afford a car of her own, Ruby’s station wagon has been a lifesaver on more than one occasion. In fact, it was Lacey who gave the station wagon its nickname: the ladybird. And she _loved_ the old broad, even if she was ten years past her own expiration date and could only haul her—barely—from one end of town to the other.

“So how was it?”

“Not good. You might want to get the muffler checked out,” says Lacey, taking a seat at the counter. “The ladybird sounds like a certified chain smoker.”  

Ruby dryly fixes her with a “you know what I mean” look before pushing a cup of black coffee towards her.

“God. Nothing _happened_ ,” says Lacey, lowering her voice as Ruby leaned closer. “I came over. I sang. He paid me. That’s it.”

Of course Ruby doesn’t buy it.

But how can she explain Gold’s unexpected tenderness towards her? His unguarded expression as they talked all through the night? How he had spent all of their time together eagerly asking questions about her life, gathering each of her answers as though every single one was a jewel.

No one has ever listened to her like that before. Like what she said actually _meant something,_ like she _mattered_ to them.

“Yeah, that’s it,” she says again.

Ruby drums her bright crimson nails on a napkin holder. “You know that the whole town’s going to crazy over this, right? Big news. Small town. People talk.”

Oh yeah, Lacey knows. Judging from the curious glances she got as she walked through the door, she figures it won’t be long before the entire town knows she was Gold’s personal...performer.

Should it worry her that she doesn’t feel as worried as she should be?

The bell above the door rings as another patron walks in. Lacey turns to see the blonde she ran into the night at the Rabbit Hole. The out-of-towner that she is surprised to see is still very much in town.

“What’s her story?” She whispers to Ruby.

Her friend shrugs. “Not totally sure. Goes by the name of Emma Swan. Kinda dropped out of the blue to bring back Henry. Did you know he skipped town?”

Lacey chokes on her coffee. “Um. No?”

“Oh.” Ruby waves a dismissive hand. “That’s like a whole ‘nother story. I’ll tell you some other time over martinis.. But hey...rumor has it that Miss Swan is Henry’s birth mother.”

Lacey’s jaw drops for the second time today. “ _What?_ ”

“Yep. So you can just _imagine_ the state of the Mills house right now.”

“Damn,” says Lacey, resisting the urge to swivel in her chair and gawk. Lord knows she’s been on the receiving end of _that_ often enough. “I mean like... _damn_.”

“I know. Kinda puts your problems in perspective doesn’t it?” Ruby lifts her finger to her chin. “You know, in a way this might be a good thing you Lace. With all the baby mama drama going on, maybe everyone will forget about you and you-know-who.”

Lacey snorts.

Somehow, she doubts that very much.

*******

With the ladybird now safely in Ruby’s possession, Lacey walks the rest of the way home. She takes a different route, however, and passes by Mr. Gold’s pawnshop.

Like almost every other building in Storybrooke, Mr. Gold’s pawnshop is as familiar to her as the back of her hand. With Mr. Gold as its permanent fixture. She tells herself that this is probably a bad idea. That she probably shouldn’t seek him out any more than their arrangement requires.

She really should listen to those instincts once in awhile.

Because of course she would run into Regina Mills and Mr. Gold in the middle of a heated conversation. And of course Regina Mills would turn her glittering eyes towards her, pinning her in place.

“Miss French,” she says, her red smile wide and predatory. “What a pleasure. I heard you were missed last night at the Rabbit.”

Wow. News really does travel fast.

“Yeah, I got a new gig.”

“I see.” Her eyes travel up and down, making Lacey feel ever more conscious that nothing she’s wearing has seen a laundromat in several days. “Congratulations. It’s been a long while since I’ve seen you perform. Where may I see you now?”

“I’m not sure why you would waste your time,” Mr. Gold says coolly.

Lacey’s insides twist as Regina turns to him. “Really? I take it you’re not a fan?”

“I find it abhorrent, actually,” he says, though Lacey notices how he can’t seem to look her in the eye as he does. “Though I can see why it would suit an establishment as vile as The Rabbit Hole.”

“Well!” says Regina. “Tell us how you really feel.”

“I’d rather he not,” says Lacey, glaring him as though she could cut him in half. And though his sunglasses do a good job of keeping his expression hidden, he at least had the decency to flinch before looking away.

Regina’s smile only widens. “Don’t mind him, _dearie_. He doesn’t know how to appreciate a good thing when he sees it.”

Lacey has a lot of colorful words she’d like to say. All of them too boiling and acidic to be properly coherent. So she stalks off without a backwards glance, heels stabbing the pavement as she goes.

*******

Her mind is a caught in a fuming frenzy.

 _Just what the_ **_hell_ ** _is_ _his problem?_

_Was all of last night just an act?_

Honestly, it probably was. Because that was Mr. Gold. Two-faced. Heartless. Cruel. How could she have been _so_ stupid?

It’s all she can do to run back there and give him a piece of her mind. To hell with their fucking arrangement. She could use the cash he gave her to skip town _tonight_ . It wouldn’t be hard to afford a bus ticket to Augusta or Portland. She could let her father fend for himself. Let _him_ deal with Mr. Gold.

“Hey!”

Lacey had rounded the corner only to crash into another person. They both stumble backwards from the impact.

It’s Emma.

“Sorry about that,” says Lacey, her heart still racing. “I wasn’t...are you okay?”

“Yeah I’m fine,” says Emma, dusting off her jacket. “Hey, I know you. You’re the girl who gave me directions from the, uh, bar place? The Bunny?”

“The Rabbit Hole,” says Lacey, wishing for a cigarette more than anything in her life. God she was still so _angry._

“Right. Anyway I just...um...hey weird question, I know. But do you happen to know where I can get a chainsaw around here?”

 


End file.
